


Know

by Desdimonda



Series: Broken Steps on the Broken Isles - Drabbles and vignettes about Maiev, Illidan and their relationship beneath the shadow of the Legion's invasion on Azeroth and beyond. [15]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: Written with the ask prompt:When you really only interact with one person for a long time, you grow accustomed to their mannerisms. Their touch. It doesn't feel right if other people touch you. Illidan wants to have his hair cut, but realizes what he actually wants is his hair cut by Maiev. After all, she was the one who did it in the dens. She's done it hundreds of times.





	Know

Maiev watched, twisting fresh leather binds around her arms to cushion her armour. The fire’s flame flickered high, obscuring most of what she stared at. At his Illidari, milling around the quiet camp, slowly rising from sleep. Maiev had been up for hours, basking in the breath of the morning, and sparring with Sira until they couldn’t breathe, sweat stained and exhausted. He’d watched her then.

And now she watched him.

Illidan bristled as Issari’s hands slid against his scalp, not because he didn’t like it, but because something didn’t fit. She was trying hard to make this good. She was being gentle, her touch near timid - so unlike the last time she had lain hands on him. 

She drew the bone tooth comb through his long black hair, easing out the knots as she stood behind him on his perch on the cliff edge by the outer side of their camp. Issari was an early riser too - as she so often liked to talk about. And Maiev had seen the red headed Slayer on occasion, alone, simply at peace as she basked in the dewy grass or made a head start on cooking everyone breakfast. She _cared_. Maybe too much.

“You’re tense,” said Issari as she took a section of his hair in hand and pulled it straight, lifting her dagger as she lined up the ends. “Did you not sleep well again?”

Illidan sighed, trying to release the taut muscle in his shoulders that made him hunch. She was trying; she was doing all she could to make him feel at ease.

But, it didn’t feel right.

“I slept well,” he lied, staring ahead, his unbound eyes bare, bright, as he watched Stormheim awaken.

“Your ears flatten when you lie,” said Issari, as she nicked some ends of his hair off with the dagger. But he flinched. Again.

“Issari - just -”

“Give it here,” said Maiev as she nudged Issari to the side with a hip, the cool metal of her armour meeting soft flesh. Issari stepped aside, a little disgruntled, but offered her dagger and comb to Maiev, blowing a shock of curls from her face. 

Illidan paused, glancing over his shoulder as Maiev approached. As she stood behind him, as he sat, hair loose and free, his blindfold off.

Just like he used to do.

“The comb. Your dagger is too blunt,” said Maiev as she picked the comb from Issari’s hands and then pulled a small dagger from her boot, unsheathed, the pristine edge catching the early morning sun. 

“Anything el-” began Issari.

“No,” said Maiev as she began to drag the comb through hair, fingers pushing aside a section before she took another into her hands, and began to cut. Just a little, just enough.

Just like she used to do.

Illidan stared ahead at the ripple of the tide against the shore, many feet below. His view was different this time. No black walls - endless; no bars to torment him, to tease the promise of freedom he believed he’d never again have; and there weren’t nine steps, there were as many as he wanted. 

Maiev’s fingers brushed against his scalp alongside the comb. He didn’t bristle. Her touch, fit.

It felt, right.

“Do you remember-” said Illidan, his words small, near carried away with the wind.

“I’m not here to reminisce,” she bit, pushing aside the section of hair she’d cut and taking a handful of another. 

Illidan closed his eyes, the tilt of his ears, drooping. “Then why are you here?” he asked, his words low and cold.

Maiev’s hands paused at the end of his hair, holding it straight and steady as she stared. She lifted her dagger and cut, letting the strands fall back against his back, broad and warm. His tattoos were bright, pulsing against his purple skin; beneath his ebony hair; under the morning hue.

“I don’t know,” she said, simply, running her fingers through the loose strands, letting the pads of her fingers press against warm scalp, stretching, pushing, until they met the base of his horns; ragged, familiar. She tilted her head, slipping a sigh past her lips, as she stared. Stared at the only thing she’d ever really known.

At him.

“But I know you.”

Illidan opened his eyes as he felt the trail of her hand slide down his cheek, fingers twisted with his ebony hair.


End file.
